‘Good,’ he said, long and low, almost orgasmically. ‘You don’t know how much that turns me on. Come on. Work that cunt, Sarah.’
My thighs were starting to ache but I kept a rhythmic pressure on his shaft, back and forth, bearing down where it crossed my G-spot.
He prodded and pinched at my arse while he screwed me, as if trying to push me through my barriers, on to a higher level of physical fitness. The idea that he was some kind of kinky personal trainer flashed into my mind, and I imagined myself on a treadmill, panting and sweating just as I was now, while he whipped me into shape.
The need to ask permission for my orgasm was becoming urgent. I braced my palms flat between his legs, holding myself up while I edged towards the point of no return.
‘You’re getting it now,’ he said. ‘Getting what you asked for.’
‘Please, Sir,’ I squeaked.
‘No,’ he said, thrusting harder.
‘Oh, pleeeease.’ I smacked at the ground, not sure it was possible to obey him.
‘You don’t deserve it,’ he panted. ‘Running away from me like that.’
‘Oh, but it was a game. Please! Let me come.’
‘It’s all a game, Sarah. And I make the rules.’
I nearly screamed with frustration and laid my head on the ground. Behind me, he gathered pace and stormed into his climax, digging his fingers hard into my upper thighs and bottom.
I wriggled futilely on his still hard cock. He laughed and slapped my bum.
‘Poor Sarah,’ he said. Then, ‘Off you pop.’
My cunt raging, I disengaged and wiped my eyes and brow. The sweat was running into my switch marks, making the burn double in intensity. My clit felt so big I could barely press my thighs together. I was a melting, stinging, pulsing mess.
Jasper lay, recovering, for a little while, eyes shut, infuriatingly relaxed and at peace. I wanted to kick him.
His eyes opened again.
‘Pack the basket,’ he said. ‘Picnic’s over.’
I tried not to look too overtly rebellious, but I might have flung the items into the hamper a little more roughly than necessary.
Jasper put his trousers back on, though my clothes were packed up with the plates and glasses, and picked up the switch.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, flicking it at my upper thighs so I jumped forward, startled.
We walked back to the house like this, me naked and in front, while he chivvied me on with little cuts to my legs and bottom, holding the picnic basket in his other arm. When we passed through the wooded area where I’d encountered Will, I wanted to cover myself, and looked furtively to either side for signs of an observer. I saw nobody, but every little noise made my heart flip.
Back at the house, Jasper took pity on me. He made me bend over the arm of a chair while he used a dildo, sliding it in and out and over my slippery clit with tight control until I came, hard, saying his name.
He made me spend the rest of the afternoon in the corner of his study with my hands on my head while he dealt with correspondence and phone calls.
I could see through the window if I moved my eyes to the right and, at one point, I thought I detected movements, out by the old stables.
But I could have been dreaming.
The summer came and it stayed, graciously for an English season.
I would spend the hottest part of the day indoors with my cataloguing, but in the mornings I was often found in the overgrown gardens, wearing a tiny flirty near-transparent dress Jasper had bought online. The overblown roses brushed my thighs as I passed them and sometimes their thorns would prick. I would shut my eyes and breathe in, honeysuckle, jasmine, and a ripe lusciousness behind all the scents. Life, languor, summer, sex.
I stopped putting my hair up and let it fall anyhow, spilling over my shoulders and flicking my breasts. My limbs went from alabaster to tan, and I seemed to follow in their wake, from academic to wood nymph.
Jasper rarely accompanied me on these garden trips, and, besides, we were usually in recovery from some bout of epic kinky sex. As I wandered about the hollyhocks and foxgloves, he would be pounding around the perimeter of the estate, intent on maintaining his stamina. He had a lot of it.